


Maybe something else I'm missing

by ember_firedrake



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Alcohol, Banter, Canon Era, First Time, Insomnia, M/M, Post-Canon, Psychological Trauma, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2315465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember_firedrake/pseuds/ember_firedrake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are a lot of things in Joe’s life that don’t make sense, but his inability to let go of David Webster is at the top of that list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe something else I'm missing

Joe Liebgott is having a hard time putting the war behind him.

He can’t shake the chill that settles in his bones every time there’s a cool evening, in spite of the fact that San Francisco will never be as cold as Bastogne.

He can’t shake the way the bullet wound in his neck, just a dappled scar on his skin, will twinge whenever it rains.

He can’t shake the nightmares of the fucking death camps, waking up drenched in a cold sweat three times a week with those images burned into his memory, as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.

He can’t shake David Webster.

It’s the last point that annoys him the most. Everything else makes sense, can be filed under combat stress reaction of whatever they’re calling it these days. War is hell, and he sees himself reflected in enough guys—men coming back from wars on both sides of the world—to know he isn’t alone in his failure to cope.

There are a lot of things in Joe’s life that don’t make sense, but his inability to let go of David Webster is at the top of that list.

* * *

If Joe was being honest with himself, it was more than just resentment that motivated him when Webster showed up in Hagenau, mouth hanging open as he awkwardly stumbled through their ranks. He couldn’t deny the way he seemed magnetically drawn to Webster, knew his excuses for egging him on were flimsy at best. When he reached out to squeeze Webster’s bicep through several layers of clothing, his own skin felt tight, and part of him wondered if he was pushing too much, _revealing_ too much.

It was the night of the second patrol that wasn’t really happening. As per Winters’ orders, most of the other men were asleep. Joe was wide awake, a tension under his skin he couldn’t shake. Donning his overcoat, he went outside.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” a voice asked.

Joe whirled to see Webster leaning against the wall. “Jesus Christ, Web, fuckin’ warn a guy, would you?” Joe hissed, but he moved closer. The glow of a lit cigarette was between Web’s lips, and Joe cursed his negligence in forgetting his own pack.

Webster gave him a withering glare. “You’re right, of course. I should have said ‘Hello, Joe, it’s David. Pardon my intrusion, but were you having trouble sleeping as well?’”

“There’s no need to be a smartass about it—fuck,” Joe said, but there was no heat in his words. He looked at Webster, the way his dark curls were like ink in the shadows. The not-quite-full moon was reflected in his eyes. His lips, wrapped around the cigarette, were parted slightly. His mouth was always fucking open, Joe reflected, open and tempting and so fucking distracting. 

Joe distantly realized he had been openly staring at Webster’s mouth without saying anything.

“Want one?” Webster asked, holding up his pack of cigarettes. Clearly he’d misinterpreted Joe’s stare.

Joe flicked his eyes back to Webster’s, smirking as he took a step forward. “Sure,” he said, and plucked the already-lit cigarette from between Web’s lips.

It was worth it for the way Webster gaped at him, indignation mixed with shock. It would have been enough if simply annoying Webster was his aim, but that wasn’t why Joe had done it. The paper was warm where it had touched Web’s mouth, and Joe breathed deep, the acrid smoke filling his lungs.

Webster was still gaping when Joe leaned in, pressing their mouths together. Then he came alive, returning the open-mouthed kiss as Joe exhaled. Their breaths mingled, impossibly hot in the chill surrounding them. It couldn’t last long, not with both their lungs demanding oxygen. Webster broke away first, coughing against the bitter taste of the smoke, while Joe grinned.

“ _Fuck_ —Joe, what the hell was that?” Webster demanded. He was panting, breath clouding in the cold air. His lips were kiss-reddened; they looked, if possible, more obscene than they had before. Joe wanted to kiss him again, but there was a distinct possibility he might get decked for his troubles. He took another drag from the cigarette, then replaced it in Webster’s mouth.

“Whatever you want it to be, Web,” he said, before going inside.

* * *

Joe thinks he sees Webster in San Francisco sometimes. The first time he caught a glimpse of that recognizable dark hair he’d nearly wrecked his cab. He knows better now, knows it’s just a product of his imagination and whatever fucking part of him can’t let this go. It doesn’t stop his breath from catching in his throat every time he sees a familiar profile.

Later, when Joe is in his shitty apartment, it occurs to him why these memories plague him. Why he can’t let Webster go.

He thinks about Webster to keep from thinking about the other stuff. Because of all the things he saw and experienced in the war, it’s David Webster he wants to forget the least.

* * *

Webster watched Joe’s mouth more often, since that night in Hagenau. Joe noticed, and did nothing to dissuade Webster’s stares as he licked his lips, lit another cigarette for himself. There was only so much taunting he could engage in, with all of them packed into the open-topped trucks, surrounded by a dozen other guys.

Instead Joe ribbed Webster about his incomplete Harvard degree, extolled the literary virtues of Flash Gordon, and told Webster of his postwar plans—greatly exaggerated, but worth it for the way Webster’s mouth twisted in distaste as Joe gesticulated about the future Mrs. Liebgott’s breasts. He could think of far more entertaining uses for Webster’s mouth, but those ideas would unfortunately have to wait until they were billeted in the next set of houses.

Everything went to shit when they reached Landsberg. It was as if the last few weeks rolling through the German countryside mocked them, if this was what the country had hidden. They’d heard the rumors, many of them had written it off as exaggerated propaganda—nothing prepared Joe for the reality of those people, _his_ people, and the atrocities that had been committed upon them. They’d been stripped of their belongings, their culture, their _identities_ , and for what? To satisfy Hitler’s image of a perfect Germany?

That evening, back in the town, Joe lost what little he’d eaten that day bent over a toilet seat. Like the rest of Easy Company, he’d enjoyed Germany’s modern conveniences, like indoor plumbing. Now, he was disgusted. How could these people call themselves civilized when barely five miles away others were treated as less than human?

Joe felt raw, exposed, like an open wound. He wasn’t aware he’d started shaking until the sound of the bathroom door opening pierced his awareness.

It was Webster, of course. For once, Joe had no biting comment readily at hand. He hated the idea of anyone seeing him like this, but at the same time he wasn’t sure he wanted to be alone.

Fortunately, Web said nothing, just wordlessly offered a canteen. When Joe had rinsed the bile from his mouth he sat down, back supported by the wall. Webster leaned against the wall next to him, almost but not quite touching him.

Joe had heard about Webster’s reaction to the camp, how he’d threatened the town’s baker when Easy had gone to collect food for the starving people. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it. A numbness had overtaken him, not so much eradicating his anger as stalling it, and it was refreshing to know that wasn’t the case for all of them. On the other hand, part of him was bitterly disappointed Webster hadn’t gone through with it. Could the people in this town truly claim ignorance or innocence at what had happened? All Joe knew was, he was glad come tomorrow those people would be seeing the camp firsthand. They would know what their complacency had allowed to happen.

Joe let his head fall forward into his hands. His shakes had started again. He was cold in spite of the fact that it was April, and beneath that he felt only numbness.

Beside him, Webster shifted until they were touching, a line of contact from shoulders to knees. It wasn’t much, but it brought a degree of warmth through the layers of their uniform, and Joe felt his shakes begin to subside.

There were no words exchanged—there was nothing they wanted to say about what they had seen today, even if they could find the words to vocalize it. Just the silent presence of one another’s companionship, and the line of warmth between them.

* * *

Joe’s days are all about routine. Used to be he couldn’t give a fuck about keeping a regular schedule, but having something to focus on distracts his mind from other things.

He’s awake early not out of any conscientious need to get a head start on his day, but because he barely sleeps through the night. He drives his cab around the city, sticking to the busy areas near airports and clubs, until someone hails him. He hates the fucking small talk most people feel the need to engage in, but at least he keeps him occupied. He eats sporadically, never food that’s good for him and never quite enough. He goes back to his apartment when he’s too tired to drive any longer, drinks until his head is buzzing, and collapses on his bed for a few hours until he can repeat the process again.

He tries not to think about his last good memory of being drunk.

* * *

Berchtesgaden was a long-needed respite for Joe. Even with Captain Nixon helping himself to the best stock Goering’s wine cellar had to offer, there was more than enough left over for every member of Easy to get well and thoroughly plastered.

Joe had a bottle of champagne all to himself, and aided by sips of gin from Luz’s bottle, his head was spinning. He staggered on the cobbled streets, amused at his own lack of coordination. A commotion drew his attention as he approached the Berchtesgaden Hof.

It was Webster. _Of course_ it was Webster. His dark hair was in a wild state of unruliness, face flushed from the alcohol he’d consumed. He was engaged with the sentry guarding the house, telling the soldier something about giving Hitler his regards. It was difficult to tell; his language was slurred.

Joe grinned, going over to drag Webster away with a guiding hand on the back of his neck. Webster went easily, his mind catching up several seconds later as he blinked slowly, as if realizing just then that Joe stood beside him. His eyes were incredibly blue, the pupils dilated wide. Joe swallowed, a small voice warning him through the haze in his mind that this could be a bad idea.

“ _Joe_ ,” Webster said happily, dragging the name out.

“C’mon Web, let’s get you somewhere you aren’t harassing the MPs.”

Joe guided him back to the house where they were billeted. He told himself that the hand on the back of Web’s neck was as much to maintain his own balance as it was to keep Webster on-course. It had nothing at all to do with the soft hairs at the nape of Webster’s neck.

Webster kept glancing over, blue eyes blinking lazily in intoxication. His mouth, of course, was open, lips parted in such a way that Webster probably wasn’t even aware of it. Did he have any idea what people thought when they saw a mouth like that? Webster lifted his own bottle of wine—Joe hadn’t noticed it until now—and wrapped his lips around the mouth of the bottle, drinking deep. He gave a sidelong grin as he finished, tongue running along his bottom lip. Scratch that, Joe thought, Webster was absolutely aware of what he was doing.

They got back to their lodging house in a surprising amount of time, considering how much alcohol they’d both had. Joe wasted no time in divesting them of their bottles, locking the door, and pushing Webster against the nearest wall.

“The fuck was that back there, Web?” Joe challenged. No sense in dancing around the issue if they had abandoned all pretenses at this point.

“Whatever you want it to be, Joe,” Webster said, the words ringing familiar in Joe’s head. His mind was still fuzzy, and he furrowed his brow, looking at Webster in the dim light of the room.

They’d both had a lot to drink, he told himself. He didn’t know if that was supposed to be a deterrent or excuse for what came next. Joe groaned, closing the distance between them and kissing Webster the way he’d been wanting to for months. This time Webster responded immediately, soft lips parting as his tongue flicked out. Joe tasted wine and champagne, but none of that was as intoxicating as the feel of that mouth against his. Joe tightened his grip on the lapels of Webster’s coat, deepening the kiss into something demanding and thorough, mapping every aspect of Web’s mouth.

They broke apart, dizzy and breathing heavily.

“Wanted that…since Hagenau,” Webster said between breaths.

“I’ve thought about it since Belgium…that fucking mouth of yours.”

Joe hadn’t meant to confide that aloud—he blamed the alcohol—but Webster gave a sly smile. A moment later Joe’s back was to the wall and Webster was sinking to his knees, rubbing his face against Joe’s pants. There was no way he ought to be moving that smoothly, as drunk as he’d seemed. Joe stopped questioning Webster’s ability to hold his liquor around the moment his cock was pulled from his pants and Webster wrapped his lips around it.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Joe hissed through his teeth, head hitting the wall.

Web’s mouth was a slow downward slide; he seemed determined to have Joe writhing and incoherent by the end of it. Joe gasped, arching against the wall, as Webster hummed around the length of him.

“Fuck, Web, fuck,” Joe managed in stuttering gasps.

His eyes had fallen shut; he opened them now, to be greeted by the sight of Webster’s mouth, _that mouth_ , stretched around him. His blue eyes were half lidded with pleasure, sweat collecting on his brow and hairline. Joe threaded his fingers into Webster’s hair, unable to resist its soft texture. Webster gave him a pointed gaze, his own hands moving from Joe’s hips around to his ass. He gripped hard, pulling Joe forward. His intent was obvious.

Joe tightened his grip in Webster’s hair, giving a shallow thrust forward. He was rewarded with a moan that reverberated along the length of his cock. Encouraged, Joe thrust again, setting a rhythm that had him trembling while Webster wore a blissed-out expression.

There was no way Joe could maintain composure for long. “Shit, Web—fuck, I’m gonna—“

He tried pulling back—let it never be said he couldn’t be considerate on occasion—but Webster made a muffled noise, his grip on Joe’s ass not letting up. Joe shuddered, his vision going white as he came.

When his vision cleared, Webster was sitting back on his heels, looking far too pleased with himself for a guy whose mouth was flushed red, lips swollen and shiny. Joe groaned, sliding to the floor as his knees gave out. He reached for Webster, kissing him again—more gently this time. It was languid, a slow exploration of Web’s mouth as he sought out the taste of himself. His hands made quick work of the fly on Web’s trousers, and then he had Web’s cock in his hand, hot and hard and perfect. Webster let out a strangled noise, and Joe’s free hand went to the back of Webster’s neck again, caressing the skin there and kissing him as he moved his hand on Web’s cock, jerking him off in slow strokes.

“ _Joe_.” It sounded almost plaintive.

Webster’s hands clutched ineffectually at Joe’s shirt. Joe grinned, and increased the pace of his hand, swiping at the underside of Webster’s cock with his thumb on every upstroke. It took no time at all before Webster pulsed in his hand. Joe captured Webster’s groan with his mouth, muffling the noise.

“Fuck _me_ ,” Webster said when he’d finally gotten his breath back. His voice was ragged, and Joe felt an inward thrill knowing he was the cause of that.

“Maybe next time,” he said, smirking when he received a glare in response.

There wouldn’t be a next time, as they woke with hangovers the following morning, and received news that Easy would be leaving Berchtesgaden. Both of them were occupied with preparations, and then they were on their way to Austria.

* * *

When Joe wakes, his head is pounding. A quick glance at the clock reveals it’s 4:30 am. There’s no use in trying to fall back asleep, but he can’t bring himself to get out of bed just yet. He’s been avoiding this, moments of inaction that allow his thoughts to creep on him, but he figures it’s been a long time in coming and can’t be avoided much longer. The truth—and he hates admitting this to himself—is that he and Webster didn’t have much of anything together. How else could Joe explain the only times they’d had anything between them, there’d been something to excuse their actions? The cigarette that night in Hagenau, the alcohol in Berchtesgaden. Hardly the basis for anything, especially when later events would prove how little they had in common.

Joe’s stomach twists. He’s tried not to think about that day in Austria when he tracked down that Nazi commandant with Web and Skinny. It’s only a source of bitterness and confusion where his feelings for Webster are concerned. Webster could be all passion and anger one moment and then inaction the next. Why protect that monster? Wasn’t it more important that those responsible for the death camps were held accountable?

Joe grits his teeth and gets out of bed. He doesn’t have much in his kitchen, but he slams it all around in his quest to get a cup of coffee started. Probably wakes up his neighbors, not that Joe cares about them.

Why had Webster even bothered joining them if he wasn’t going to kill anyone? If he was going to argue the whole fucking time, why go? For that matter, why had Joe allowed him to come along?

Joe knows why. Because he had remembered that day at Landsberg, afterwards, when Web had come to him and sat with him in shared comfort, neither of them saying a word. Because he was stupid enough to think there might have been something there, some shared understanding.

* * *

“Were you even at Landsberg?” Joe demanded.

“You know I was.”

Joe was certain he imagined the soft quality in Webster’s voice, the way his brow had furrowed and his eyes had gone pained.

* * *

When it happens, Joe is half-convinced he’s still dreaming. There’s no mistaking it though. Webster’s hair is longer, the curls growing more punctuated at the ends. There’s a shadow of stubble on his jawline, and his eyes sport dark circles. He looks as weary as Joe feels. He’s also sitting in the back of Joe’s cab.

Joe goes tense all over, hardly daring to breathe because _Webster is in his cab_. It’s obviously not an accidental thing; Webster’s blue eyes bore into his through the rearview mirror. He looks worried, and Joe can’t decide if it’s warranted or not. His own emotions are at war within him, equal parts happiness at seeing Webster again, and misplaced fury he can’t pinpoint the cause of.

It’s Joe who finally breaks the silence. “Where to?”

“That depends,” Webster says, as something twists in Joe’s gut at the sound of Webster’s voice again. “Would you deck me if I said ‘someplace we can talk’?”

There’s a biting retort at the ready, about how he ought to deck Web regardless, but Joe’s tongue feels clumsy in his mouth, unprepared as he is for the sight of Webster after eleven months.

Not that Joe has really made himself accessible to his fellow Easy Company soldiers.

He shifts the cab into drive, making for his apartment. It’s not exactly presentable, but Joe wants to be on his own turf. He has no idea what Web wants to talk about, and he may need whatever edge he can get.

“So,” Joe says by way of conversation. “You going to tell me what you’re doing out here?”

He keeps his eyes on the road, though he does spare a moment to glance at Web’s face in the mirror. Web’s expression is guarded—as if, for once, he knows he’s treading uncertain territory. He’s not forging on blindly the way he used to.

“I’ve been here about four months,” Webster said. “Freelancing for a few papers.”

Joe’s glance in the rearview mirror is sharp. How many times had he seen a glimpse of Webster in the corner of his eye? How much of that was truly a product of his imagination? “Four months?” he echoes.

In the mirror, Webster shrugs. “I wanted to be near the ocean.”

Joe makes the final turn onto his street. “And what, they don’t have ocean on the east coast?”

He doesn’t get to hear a reply, as he hits the brakes harder than necessary, throwing Web off-balance. _Good_. Webster has recovered himself by the time Joe is out the car and opening the passenger door. When they’re in the apartment (Webster makes no comment on the state of disarray) Joe rounds on him.

“Right, care to tell me why you’re actually here?”

Webster looks at him, perplexed, and it’s so infuriating Joe might shake him. He doesn’t, though. He doesn’t trust himself to touch Webster, part of him still terrified this will turn out to be a dream.

“Are you mad at me, Joe?”

Joe lets out a mirthless laugh. “I have no fucking clue, Web, because I don’t know what the fuck we even are. I can’t seem to get comfortable in my own skin, I keep thinking I see you, that I’m going nuts. Then you show up out of the fucking blue in the back of my cab, saying you need to _talk_ , saying you’ve been here for months, what am I supposed to make of that? So what did you want to talk about?”

Webster shifts on his feet, unable to keep eye contact. “I’m sorry I didn’t find you earlier,” he says.

“That’s not—I’m not upset about that.”

“Then what are you upset about?”

Joe doesn’t want to do this, he doesn’t want to lay all his emotions bare. But Webster reappearing in his life has dredged up a lot of things that, until now, were only in the back of his mind. Time and distance have left him soured with bitterness, and Joe finds that what he craves, _needs_ , is understanding. When Joe finally speaks, his voice sounds like a croak.

“You remember that German we tracked down in Austria?”

Webster’s face has gone guarded, unreadable, but he nods.

“Why’d you try to stop us, Web?” Joe asks. “Why’d you try so hard to protect him?”

Webster’s brows furrow over his blue eyes, his face intent. “It wasn’t him I was trying to protect.”

There’s a lump in Joe’s throat that feels like he swallowed his tongue. “Fuck you, Web,” he snaps. “I don’t need protecting.”

He turns from Webster, goes into the kitchen. He needs something to do with his hands, something to occupy his attention because he can’t look at Webster right now, can’t face him because he doesn’t want to see pity in Web’s eyes. He doesn’t think he could handle that. He slams a tumbler onto the counter and is reaching for the nearest liquor bottle, when Webster’s voice stays his hand.

“How long have you had trouble sleeping?”

Joe turns, slowly. Webster has followed him into the kitchen. There’s only five feet separating them, and Joe marvels that such a distance can seem like a gulf.

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“But you didn’t. I asked first,” Webster says, patient.

Joe takes a breath before answering. “Long enough.”

Webster nods, unsurprised. He takes a cautious step forward. “Look, Joe, I get that it was a lot more personal for you than it was for the rest of us. The anger you feel…it’s absolutely warranted. But you’ve been carrying Landsberg with you for more than a year, and no one should have to bear that weight alone.”

Joe’s angry retort goes dry in his mouth. He remembers that day, the numbness that had overtaken him, and the way Webster had wordlessly offered support with just his presence. Warm beside him, Joe hadn’t been able to forget what he’d seen, but some of the tension at least had left him.

“Why _me_ , Web?”

He means to ask Web again why he’s here. Or perhaps why protecting him was so important. That’s Joe’s intent, but he only manages those three words. He hopes Webster can infer the rest.

Webster licks his lips, a nervous gesture. “I hated that goddamned war,” he says finally. “I hated the Germans. I hated staying in shitty foxholes and I hated the food and I hated some of the officers. I hated the fucking points system that kept me there longer than I needed to be. I thought—there were times I thought you hated me, and times I thought I hated you, but it’s been almost a year, and fuck if I can’t seem to get you out of my head.”

Joe feels lighter than he has in months, and he’s fighting the urge to smile. Trust Webster to find the words that perfectly capture how he feels. The distance between them doesn’t seem so great. Still, Joe resists taking that final step.

“Four months you’ve been here, you couldn’t say all that sooner?”

Webster lets out a huff of laughter, as if he can’t believe Joe’s response.

“It’s a big city, in case you hadn’t noticed. And I may have convinced myself you wanted nothing to do with me.” His tone is apologetic.

Now Joe closes the distance between them, cups the back of Webster’s neck with his hand, and brings their faces together. The kiss is deep, a slow exploration as he reacquaints himself with the soft drag of Webster’s lips against his own. Webster sighs into his mouth, a sound of relief that Joe echoes before Webster’s hands are on his hips, pulling him closer.

It takes Joe a moment to place what feels different about this time, when it occurs to him. He isn’t using anything as an excuse for his actions. There’s no cigarette to pretend the act is something else, and they’re both sober. This is only them, and Joe finds he wants more of it.

They make it to Joe’s bedroom before he can get too impatient. He considers apologizing for the mess, but Webster seems too busy stripping him to notice.

“So,” Webster says, as he tugs his shirt over his head to reveal his bared chest (bared being a relative term—seriously, it’s ridiculously hairy in a way that ought to be obnoxious, but for some reason just makes Joe want to rub himself against it). “I take it I was wrong about you wanting nothing to do with me?”

“Web, I swear, I will give you blue balls if you don’t get your mouth on my cock in the next twenty seconds.”

“Oh, is that how it’s going to be?” Webster asks, kicking off his pants and underwear. He tackles Joe into the bed. “I seem to recall there was talk last time of fucking me.”

Joe’s cheeks burn, embarrassed by how turned on he is just from Webster’s weight pinning him to the bed. “I don’t have any stuff,” he mumbles, half regretfully. Much as he’d like to fuck David Webster, there’s an equal part of him that wants to know how it would feel the other way around, and he doesn’t know if he’s prepared for that yet.

Webster seems to take the news in stride. He lowers himself, bringing their hips in contact. Joe gasps as his cock slides in the groove of Web’s thigh. “It’s been more than twenty seconds. What are you gonna do about it, Joe?”

How is Joe expected to think straight when all he wants to do is rut against Webster’s leg? “That depends,” he says, letting out a huff. “Will you suck my cock later?”

Webster pretends to consider it, the bastard, before he says, “Maybe next time. I rather like this.” His words are punctuated by another thrust against Joe’s hip. “It’s more…personal.”

And fuck if part of that idea doesn’t terrify Joe. He’s used to keeping things impersonal, keeping his distance because it keeps him safe. He’d rush headlong into a firefight against the SS, but he hesitates to bare his heart. But this is _Webster_ , Webster looking at him with lips parted and eyelids heavy with want, the pupils so dilated only a thin ring of blue is visible. It’s not alcohol causing the flush in Webster’s cheeks; that’s all him.

Joe reaches up, cupping Webster’s neck and pulling him down into another kiss. The movement brings their bodies more fully into contact, and Joe groans into Webster’s mouth as their cocks slide together. With his free hand, Joe cards his fingers into the hairs on Web’s chest. When he traces a nipple with his thumb, Webster lets out a strangled noise, breaking the kiss to breathe heavily into Joe’s mouth.

“ _Fuck_ , Joe.”

Joe grins, performing the same action on the other nipple. He’ll concede that this position is worth it if only for the broken noises Web makes. Of course, then Webster buries his face into Joe’s neck, sucking hard on a pulse point as he rolls his hips, and Joe is gone. He keens, clutching at Webster in desperation as the friction between their bodies sends him over the edge.

Joe gives a weak spasm as Web’s cock slides through the mess created between them, then a few moments later Webster shudders and goes tense above him. He manages to collapse more beside Joe than on top of him, body going slack.

“Aren’t you going to clean yourself up?” Joe asks, incredulous. He doesn’t want to think about how unpleasant that mess will be if it dries on Web’s chest.

“Mmff,” Webster mumbles into the covers. “You do it. I did most of the work, punk.”

“Yeah? Don’t think I’m going to forget this next time, asshole,” Joe gripes, rising from the bed to retrieve a handkerchief.

He considers throwing it at Webster’s face after wiping the worst of the mess off them, but he decides against it. What if they—accidentally, of course—end up cuddling during the night? Joe doesn’t want that all over him. He’s thinking about this from a purely practical standpoint.

He elbows Web when he gets back into bed—Webster is strategically spread-eagled so he takes up most of the space—and drifts into a satisfied sleep.

Joe wakes to the sound of Webster letting out a displeased groan. He tries to open his eyes, and immediately regrets it.

“Why’s it so bright?” Joe grumbles, covering his face with his hands.

“Why is it bright?” Webster sounds amazed. “Because the fucking sun is up. Why the hell don’t you have curtains?”

“Haven’t needed them,” Joe mutters, burrowing into the blankets again. Then he realizes what he said. He looks up, checks the clock.

“I slept through the night,” Joe says. He can’t remember the last time he had a full, uninterrupted night of sleep. Before jumping into Normandy, at least.

Webster has fallen silent, his face perceptive as he realizes the significance of Joe’s words. Joe is caught by the way Web’s eyelashes fan across his cheeks in the morning light. He wants to lean up and kiss the shadows cast on Web’s face, but restrains himself. He’s still getting used to the idea that he _can_.

It’s Webster who moves first, drawing the blanket over both of them so it blocks out the light. He presses the ghost of a kiss to Joe’s jawline.

“We could sleep a little longer,” he says.

Joe smiles, feeling the press of an erection against his thigh. “I can think of a few better ways to spend our time.”


End file.
